REUBEN STREET.
All night the storm increased in violence, blowing straight from the
north-west with an incessant fury which tossed and tore the waters of
the bay. Against the black cliffs the foaming waves hurled themselves
like fierce animals leaping up to reach their prey, but the adamant
rocks, which had defied their rage for centuries, still stood firm, and
flung them back panting and foaming into the swirling depths below, to
rise again with ever-increasing strength, until the showers of spray
reached up even to the grassy slopes on which the sheep huddled
together.
Valmai had lain with wide-open eyes through the long hours of the
night, listening with a shrinking fear to every fresh gust which
threatened to sweep the old house away. No raging storm or shrieking
wind had ever before done more than rouse her for a moment from the
sound sleep of youth, to turn on her pillow and fall asleep again; but
to-night she could not rest, she was unnerved by the strain and
excitement of the day, and felt like some wandering, shivering creature
whose every nerve was exposed to the anger of the elements. When at
last it was time to rise and prepare her uncle's breakfast, she felt
beaten and weary, and looked so pale and hollow-eyed, that Shoni, who
was fighting his way in at the back door as she appeared, exclaimed in
astonishment.
"What's the matter with you, Valmai? You bin out in the storm all
night?"
"Almost as bad, indeed, Shoni; there's a dreadful wind it is."
"Oh, 'tis not come to the worst yet," said Shoni.
The doors continued to bang and the windows to rattle all through that
day and the greater part of the next, and it was not till the evening
of the third day that Valmai ventured to put on her cloak and pay a
visit to Nance's cottage. The tide was low as she crossed the Rock
Bridge, and there was no danger, therefore, from the waves. On her
return she recalled the events of the last storm, when Cardo's strong
arm had saved her from death.
Her eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered a little as she
remembered that night; but she set herself bravely to struggle with her
sorrow, and to look forward with hope and joy to the future.
When she entered the little parlour, which her neat fingers had
transformed into a nest of cosy comfort, she found her uncle standing
at the table, looking dazed and helpless.
"Oh, Valmai!" he said, "here's a letter from John, my brother, and
indeed I don't know what am I to do."
"What is the matter, uncle? Is he ill?"
"Yes, he is very ill. He has broke his leg, and he got no one to look
after his house; and he is asking will you go down to take care of him.
Will you go, Valmai? He got lot of money. I will drive you down to
Caer Madoc to the coach. That will take you to the station to meet the
train, and you will be in Fordsea by four o'clock to-morrow."
Fordsea! What visions crowded round the name. Cardo had been there so
lately, and now where was he? Out on that stormy sea, every moment
increasing the distance between them.
"I will go if you like, uncle, and nurse him until he gets well."
"There's a good gel, indeed; and you will kom back to me again, 'cos I
am used to you now, and you are reading very nice to me, and saving a
great deal of my old eyes. He got a servant," he added, "but she is
only an ole ooman, coming in in the morning and going home in the
evening."
"Oh, yes, I will manage very well," said Valmai.
She grasped at the idea of change of scene and life, hoping it would
help her to regain her peace of mind. So the next day saw her on her
way to Caer Madoc, driven by her uncle in the rickety old gig which had
carried him on his preaching expeditions for years. Along the high
road Malen bore them at a steady trot, and when Valmai took her place
in the coach, and bid her uncle good-bye, she called to mind that only
two days ago Cardo had been its occupant, and her heart was full of
wistful longings. Yes, she felt she was a foolish girl, but she was
always intending to grow into a sensible and useful _wife_; and, with
this virtuous intention in her mind, she tried to banish all vain
regrets, and a serious, composed little look came over her mouth.
Arrived at Fordsea, she sought for her uncle's house, it was in Reuben
Street, she knew, and not far from the docks. Reaching the roadway,
she caught sight of the foaming white waves in the harbour, and
wondered how far the _Burrawalla_ had already got on her way towards
the Antipodes.
"Captain Powell of _The Thisbe_?" said a lounging sailor who was
passing, with his hands in his pockets and his cap very much at the
back of his head. "Yes, miss, Aye knows him well. It's not far from
here, and Ay'll be passing his door. Will Aye carry your bag?"
And, not waiting for an answer, he hoisted it on his shoulder, and
signed to her to follow him. He was right; she had not far to go
before she reached the little, uneven row of houses called Reuben
Street, at one of which an old woman, with bucket and cloth, was
preparing to wash the doorstep.
"Here's the young leddy come," said the sailor, pushing the portmanteau
into the passage.
"Will I pay you something?" said Valmai, nervously fingering her purse.
"Aw naw, nawthin' at all," said the sailor, hurrying away, with a flush
on his face that showed her her hesitation had not been unwarranted.
In fact, Jim Harris considered himself a "friend of the family," and
had gone to the station with the express intention of meeting the
"young leddy." Having for years sailed under Captain Powell, he still
haunted his house whenever he was on dry land. Every morning he went
in to shave him, and in the evening he mixed his toddy for him and made
him comfortable for the night, expecting and receiving no more than the
friendship and grateful thanks of the old man who had, not so long ago,
been his captain. Having deposited the portmanteau, Valmai had
scarcely time to thank him before he had slouched away with a polite
touch of his cap.
"My uncle lives here? Captain Powell."
"Yes, miss, and thank the Lord you've come, for Ay've bin ewt on the
road looking for you twenty taimes to-day, though Ay towld him you
couldn't come afore the train. There he is, knocking again. You go up
to him, miss, that's all he wants. Ay'll bring your bag up, honey.
There's your room, raight a-top of the stayurs; and there's your
uncle's door on the first landing. Ye'll hear him grumbling." And,
following these instructions, Valmai knocked at the first door she came
to.
"Come in, and be tarnished to you," said an extraordinarily gruff
voice; and, almost before she had time to enter the room, a heavy book
came flying at her. Fortunately, it missed its aim, and she stood for
a moment irresolute at the door, while her uncle, without looking at
her, continued to rail at his much-enduring domestic, whom he was
accustomed to manage by swearing at and flattering in turns. His voice
was a guttural rumbling, which seemed to come from some cavernous
bronchial depths.
"Ain't the little gel come yet?"
"Uncle, here I am," said Valmai, approaching the bed with a frightened
look, though she tried to put on a placid smile.
The shaggy head turned on its pillow.
"Hello and so you are; in spite of that old witch saying for the last
hour that you couldn't 'acome yet. Come here, my beauty, and shake
hands with your old uncle. Ay've got one hand, you see, to shake with
you."
"Yes, uncle, and to throw books at me when I come in."
There was a low, gurgling laugh, which deepened the colour in the old
man's face so much that Valmai, fearing he was going to have a fit,
hastened to say something quiet and calming.
"I came as soon as I could, uncle. We were so sorry to hear of your
accident. How did it happen?"
"The Lord knows, my dear, Ay don't, for Ay've walked up that street
four or five times every day the last faive years, and never done such
a thing afore. But there--" and he began to gurgle again, to Valmai's
horror, "there must always be a beginning to everything, so Ay slipped
on a d--d stone, somehow or other, and, being no light weight, broke my
leg, and sprained my wrist into the bargain. Take off your things, may
dear. Are you up for nursing an old man till he's well again?"
"Indeed, I'll do my best, whatever," said Valmai, taking off her hat
and cloak. "Uncle Essec said I was to stay until you were quite well."
"That's raight. Ay knew you'd come, my gel, though that old devil
wanted me to think that perhaps you wouldn't. 'She'll come,' ay sez,
'and if she's like her father she'll come almost afore she's asked.'
So ready, he was; and so kind. And how's old Essec? Got his nose
buried in them mouldy books same as ever?"
"Just the same," said Valmai. "Shall I take my things to my own room?"
"Yes, may dear. It's the little room a-top of this. Where's that old
hag now? She ought to be here to show you your room," and reaching a
heavy stick, which stood by his bedside, he knocked impatiently on the
bare boarded floor, calling Mrs. Finch! Mrs. Finch! so loudly at the
same time, that Valmai seriously feared he would burst a blood vessel.
"Deaf as a post," he said, gasping.
"Leave it to me, uncle; don't tire yourself. She has shown me my room,
and there she is taking my bag up. Now, see how quickly I'll be back,
and bring you a nice cup of tea, and one for myself in the bargain, for
I am famishing," and she left the room with a cheerful nod towards the
old man.
"Bless her purty face!" said the rumbling voice when the door was
closed. "Ay don't want her cup o' tea! Never could bear the slosh,
but Ay'm blest if Ay won't drink it to the dregs to please her."
In a very short time Valmai returned, carrying a tray laid out neatly
with tea-things for two; and, drawing a little round table towards the
bed, placed the tray upon it, while Mrs. Finch brought in some slices
of cold ham.
"There, you see," said Valmai, "I'm making myself quite at home. I
asked Mrs. Finch for that ham."
"Of course you did, may dear! Didn't Ay tell you, you old addlepate,"
he said, turning to poor Mrs. Finch, whose only desire seemed to be to
find a place for the ham and get out of the room--"didn't Ay tell you
the lil gel would come?"
"Iss you did--many taimes to-day," said Mrs. Finch, while the old man
fumbled about for another book to throw after her.
Valmai laughed, but chided gently;
"Oh, poor old thing, uncle! She flew about like lightning to get the
tea ready. Now, here's a lovely cup of tea!"
"Ah! It do smell beautiful!" And he allowed himself to be raised up
on his pillow, while he drank the tea down at a gulp.
"Bravo! uncle," said Valmai; "ready for another?"
"Another! Oh, dash it, no; one's enough, may dear. 'Twas very naice
and refreshing. Now you have your tea, and let me look at you."
And as Valmai partook of her tea and bread and butter and ham, even his
hospitable feelings were satisfied.
"Now I'm going to ring for Mrs. Finch to take these things away, uncle;
no more books, mind!"
"No, no," he said, laughing; "she's had four to-day, and a pair of
slippers, and that'll do for one day. After all, she's a good ole
sole! though why sole more than whiting or mackerel Ay never could make
ewt. She knows me and my ways, may dear, and Ay pay her well. Eight
shillings a week regular! and she only comes at ten and leaves at
faive. Oh! bless you, _she_ knows when she's well off, or she wouldn't
put up with the books and slippers. Ay know 'em!" he added, with a
shrewd wink, which set Valmai laughing again. When Mrs. Finch came in
for the tray he was quite amiable. "Well, ole gel," he said, "this is
the night for your wages, isn't it?"
"Iss, sir," said the woman, with a sniff and a bob curtsey.
"There's my purse. Count it out to her, may dear. Eight shillings,
every penny, and there's a shilling overhead for good luck, Mrs. Finch,
becos the lil gel has come to manage the ship for us. Now remember,
she's capting now and you're the mate."
"Iss, sir, and thank you," said Mrs. Finch, disappearing with practised
celerity through the doorway.
And so Valmai took her place at once as "captain" of her uncle's house,
and, in spite of his gruff ways and his tremendous voice, she felt more
at home with him than with Essec Powell, for here her presence was
valued, and she felt sure that she had a place in the old man's warm
heart.
She slept heavily through the next night, and in the morning awoke
refreshed, and with a feeling of brightness and cheerfulness which she
had not expected to feel so soon. Her new life would give her plenty
to do, to fill up every hour and to drive out all useless regrets and
repinings.
Deep in her heart lay the one unsatisfied longing. Nothing could alter
that; nothing could heal the wound that Cardo's departure had made
except the anticipation of his return. Yes, that day would come! and
until then she would bear her sorrow with a brave heart and smiling
face. The weather continued rough and stormy, and, looking out from
her bedroom window, the grey skies and windswept streets made no
cheerful impression upon her. The people, the hurrying footsteps, and
the curious Pembrokeshire accent, gave her the impression of having
travelled to a foreign country, all was so different to the peaceful
seclusion of the Berwen banks. It was a "horrid dull town," she
thought and with the consciousness of the angry white harbour which she
had caught sight of on her arrival, her heart sank within her; but she
bravely determined to put a good face on her sorrow. On the second
morning after her arrival she was sitting on the window-seat in her
uncle's room, and reading to him out of the newspaper, when the bang of
the front door and a quick step on the stair announced the doctor's
arrival.
"Well, captain," he said, "and how is the leg getting on?"
He was a bright, breezy-looking man, who gave one the impression of
being a great deal in the open air, and mixing much with the
"sailoring." Indeed, he was rather nautical in his dress and
appearance.
"You have a nurse, I see," he added, looking at Valmai with a shrewd,
pleasant glance.
"Yes," said the captain, "nurse and housekeeper in one. She is may
niece, poor Robert's daughter, you know."
"Ah! to be sure," said the doctor, shaking hands with her. "He went
out as a missionary, didn't he?"
"Yes, to Patagonia, more fool he," said the captain. "Leaving his
country for the sake of them niggers, as if there wasn't plenty of
sinners in Wales for him to preach to. But there, he was a good man,
and Ay'm a bad 'un," and he laughed, as though very well satisfied with
this state of affairs.
"Have you heard the news?" said the doctor, while he examined the
splints of the broken leg.
"No, what is it?" rumbled the captain.
"Why, the _Burrawalla_ has put back for repairs, Just seen her tugged
in--good deal damaged; they say, a collision with the steam-ship,
_Ariadne_.
"By gosh! that's bad. That's the first accident that's ever happened
to Captain Owen, and he's been sailing the last thirty years to my
knowledge. Well, Ay'm tarnished, but Ay'm sorry."
"Always stops with you?" inquired the doctor.
"Yes, has all his life. There's the little back parlour and the
bedroom behind it always kept for him."
"Well, you are going on very nicely. Now for the wrist."
The captain winced a little and swore a good deal while his wrist was
under manipulation. It evidently pained him more than the broken leg.
"What the blazes are your about, doctor? Leave it alone--do."
"Come, come, now that's all over. You must mind and keep it very
quiet. No shying of books and things, remember. Well, good-bye; come
and see you again to-morrow. I daresay you'll see Captain Owen by and
by. Good-bye, my dear," turning to Valmai, "take care of your uncle."
And like a gust of wind he ran down the stairs, banged the front door,
and was gone.
Valmai had dropped her paper and listened breathlessly to his
communications, and she was sitting, pale and silent, as a tumult of
exciting thoughts rushed into her mind.
"The _Burrawalla_ come back! damaged! a collision! And Cardo, where
was he? Was it possible that the dull grey town contained her lover?"
"Well, to be sure, here's a pretty kettle of fish," said her uncle,
using strong compulsion to adapt his words to the squeamishness of a
"lil gel." "Here's the _Burrawalla_, Valmai, put back for repairs, may
friend Captain Owen's ship, you know. Sech a thing has never happened
afore. You'll have to put his rooms ready, may dear, and laight a
fayer by 'm by, for he's sure to be here to-night. You'll look after
him, won't you?"
"Yes, uncle, I'll do my best, whatever. I had better go and get his
sheets aired at once." And she left the room, glad to hide her pale
face and trembling hands from her uncle.
Once outside the bedroom door, she crossed her hands on her bosom, as
though to stop the tumultuous beating of her heart. What was going to
happen? Should she hear Cardo's name from Captain Owen? Could she
find her way to the docks? and as a gleam of sunlight shone in through
the little window in the linen cupboard, she thought what a bright and
happy place Fordsea was after all.
She hurried through her domestic preparations, and then, after a
consultation with her uncle, made an expedition into the market,
ordering supplies for the following days. When she returned, the front
door was open, and, entering the passage, she heard loud voices in her
uncle's room, and gently pushing the door open, saw a rough-bearded,
blue-eyed man standing by the bedside.
"Well, that's all settled, then; you'll let the young man have my
rooms? 'Twill only be for two or three days. And this is your niece?
Well, upon my word, I begin to repent of my bargain. Hard lines for
me! to be tied to the docks night and day to watch those repairs, while
my young friend comes here to be taken care of and fussed about by my
old friend and such a pretty girl."
Valmai felt disappointed; she had hoped to learn something from their
guest of Cardo and his whereabouts.
"I am sorry," she said, as he took his departure, "that you can't stay
here."
The gallant captain taking her hand, looked admiringly at the blushing
face.
"By Jove, and so am I; but dooty is dooty, my dear, especially your
dooty to your ship. Good-bye, come and see you again soon." And once
more Valmai was left to conflicting emotions.
The day passed quickly, while she divided her attention between her
uncle's wants and her preparations for the guest who was to arrive
about six o'clock. Mrs. Finch would prepare the tea and roast the fowl
which was to accompany it, and Valmai added little dainty touches of
flowers and lights for the table.
"We won't light the candles till he knocks at the door; and when he has
once sat down to his meal, I can manage about taking it out; but I am
very nervous. I wonder what he will be like."
Her uncle knocked and called incessantly, giving fresh directions and
asking innumerable questions, in his anxiety that his friend's friend
should be made comfortable under his roof. At last everything was
ready, a bright fire burning in the grate threw its glow through the
open door of the adjoining bedroom, and flickered on the
prettily-arranged dressing-table. All looked cosy and home-like, and
when everything was completed, Valmai retired to put on a fresh frock
of white serge.
"His name is Gwynn," said her uncle at last, while she listened
breathlessly to the opening of the front door, and the entrance of the
stranger.
"This is Captain Powell's house?" said a voice which set Valmai's
pulses throbbing, and all the blood in her body rushed to her face and
head. For a moment she felt dizzy, and she all but dropped the tray
which she was holding for her uncle.
"Don't you be afraid, may dear," said the captain consolingly.
"Captain Owen tells me he's a ra-al gentleman, and they are always
easily pleased. He won't look at you, may dear; but, by Jingo, if he
does, Ay'm not ashamed of you. Now, you go down, and make a nice
curtsey, may dear, not like Mrs. Finch makes it, you know, but as, Ay
bet, you have larnt it at the dancing school; a scrape behind with one
foot, you know, and hold your frock with two hands, and then say, 'My
uncle hopes you will make yourself quite at home, sir.'"
"Oh, uncle!" said Valmai, in despair, "he's not come out yet from his
bedroom. Won't I wait till he is seated down at his tea, and till Mrs.
Finch has gone?"
"Well, confound the ole 'ooman," said the captain, knocking violently
on the floor, "where is she now? Why don't she come and tell me how
he's getting on? Roast fowl nicely browned, may dear? Egg sauce?"
"Yes, and sausages, uncle. There, he is come out now, and Mrs. Finch
is taking the fowl in; he is saying something to her and laughing. Now
he is quite quiet," said the girl.
"Of course; he's attending to business." And for the next quarter of
an hour, Valmai had the greatest difficulty in restraining her uncle's
impatience.
"Let him have time to finish, uncle!"
"Yes, yes; of course, may dear, we'll give him time."
"I can now hear Mrs. Finch say, Is there anything else, sir? So she is
going. Yes, there, she has shut the front door. Oh, dear, dear! Now
if he rings, I _must_ go in."
"Oh, dear, dear," said the captain, in an irritable voice, "what is
there to oh, dear, dear, about? You go down and do as Ay tell you, and
you can just say, as the ladies do, you know, 'I hope your tea is to
your laiking, sir.' Go now, at once." And as she went, with
hesitating footsteps, he threw an encouraging "Good gel" after her.